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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27965342">in any lifetime, in any version of reality</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins'>aelins</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Berlin Wall, F/M, Post-War, circa 1989, this would be like very early 1990, twisty ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:55:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27965342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rhys’ eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles genuinely at Feyre, “You always loved to flatter me, you know it does nothing to assuage my ego.” </i>
  <br/>
  <i>Feyre laughed, and he thought he might like to bottle the sound and get drunk on it. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>Her lilting Russian answers, “I am but the night, I have loved the stars in the sky too fondly to be afraid—especially of you and your,” she turns in his arms and looks into his violet eyes, “ego.” </i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Feyre Archeron/Rhysand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in any lifetime, in any version of reality</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm in a weird mood so expect some weird fics.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The piano played a haunting melody. Rhys’ fingers danced over the keys, rain poured in buckets through the streets of New York. The song ends and the melody carries through Rhys’ bones. He is tired, and ten years in Berlin would do that to a man, especially now. Now that the wall had fallen, and he was just another man. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t anything anymore, he’d sit in this old, grand building and play his piano until his heart stopped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t think about the woman he’d loved and lost in the process of the wall being torn down. He couldn’t think about her golden blonde hair—flecked with mud and her petite body being hauled away by KGB officers—who weren’t really KGB officers anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was a traitor to mother Russia—but she was his hero. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After all, she had set in motion the events that caused Russia’s fall from grace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he’d said, as they tore the cement and the steel rebar of the Berlin wall down with their fingers, “I love you, and I will love you until I die, and if there’s a life after that, I’ll love you then.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But dreams were for fools, and even as he hears the feminine sounds of heels on the long flight of stairs up to his secluded apartment, he merely assumes it’s a hooker he’d forgotten about. So when he thrusts the door open, and she’s standing there—he falls to his knees. “I am dreaming,” he whispers, clinging to her legs, “Don’t let me wake up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he is not dreaming and she is warm to his touch, not even his most vivid dreams of her feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>real. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she is crying. Her golden hair is matted and tangled, she looks like she could do with few square meals, and maybe, maybe they are both so broken beyond repair that this will never work, but the melody is still carrying, the music still sings in his bones and it’s been six months since it all happened. Since he’d thought she’d been murdered in cold blood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And not a day goes by when he has had a clear head, no, it had always been mottled by cheap American vodka. The kind that would certainly pass for gasoline. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m here, </span>
  <em>
    <span>solnishko</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she breathes and it’s like the world has taken its first breath after nearly drowning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rain outside has stopped, and the birds are chirping. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She helps him off the ground, and they look into each other’s eyes, seeing the brilliant, blazing truth there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had suffered, and she had nearly perished—but she had returned. For him, and him alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the end, it had been her who had loved him until the last star in the galaxy died. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They take their time getting her out of her clothes into the bath. She is scarred, from bullets and bombs and god knows what else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are several new scars she didn’t have from their last night in Berlin. A patch of skin on her thigh that looks like a crater, he recognizes it for what it is, an automatic rifle wound. She’d fought so hard, and he doesn’t cry when she explains each injury, each bruise, each one of her limitations now she’s a survivor of a gulag. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s the piano teaching going?” She asks finally when they are done sharing the gasoline-like vodka and the bathwater has gone tepid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He scoffs, Rhys’ had never been good at explaining his genius. It had just come to him. “I lost my muse.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>tsks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “From what I heard you still sound like a virtuoso.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhys’ eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles genuinely at Feyre, “You always loved to flatter me, you know it does nothing to assuage my ego.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Feyre laughed, and he thought he might like to bottle the sound and get drunk on it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lilting Russian answers, “I am but the night, I have loved the stars in the sky too fondly to be afraid—especially of you and your,” she turns in his arms and looks into his violet eyes, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>ego</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhysand feels a burden lift from his chest, “You always did say such romantic things.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I learned from the best, dear,” Is Feyre’s only reply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then—and then… armed men storm the bathroom. They do not ask questions, they do not confirm the identity of the people they have been sent here to kill. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They open fire, Rhysand thinks it’d be a nice time for a miracle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>happens</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is not what one would expect of death, a cloak of night, with no stars. Or maybe… Rhysand hears Feyre breathing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhysand opens his eyes and sees a bullet stopped in front of his nose. It’s surrounded by stardust and night. He flicks it, and it topples into the bathwater. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Feyre shrieks something in Russian and grabs Rhysand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhysand, realizing something is </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>amiss, twitches his fingers and contorts the stuff currently freezing time and space, but his fingers are wet and he snaps his fingers, and the men turn to a bloody mist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Feyre says they’re getting dressed, and though it is mid-spring they still need to bundle up before going out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s happening?” Rhysand says—more curious than alarmed now that his bathroom is a bloody mess. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m a witch,” Feyre says bluntly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhysand’s eyes boggle but he doesn’t protest, just runs out of the apartment, leaving his beloved piano behind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are so many questions and yet, as they flee into the night, the stars twinkle and dance in their honor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And tonight? They make love under the full moon, counting their lucky stars they’re alive. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>come talk to me, i’d love to hear form you on social media <a href="https://danaanruhn.tumblr.com">tumblr </a> / <a href="https://www.twitter.com/pincelings_">twitter</a>  / <a href="https://www.instagram.com/danaanruhn">instagram</a> / <a href="https://www.tiktok.com/@ruhns">tiktok</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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